


Parallax

by MarshmallowPeeps



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Childhood, Childhood Friends, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Gen, Growing Up, M/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-02
Updated: 2017-06-02
Packaged: 2018-11-07 14:03:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11060526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarshmallowPeeps/pseuds/MarshmallowPeeps
Summary: Parallax: a difference in the apparent position of an object viewed along two different lines of sightThey begin far apart, but something brings them together.





	Parallax

**Author's Note:**

> This story is mostly based on my own thoughts about the characters, so it might not line up too closely with any official canon that's been released since the movie.

* * *

He is left at the temple in a bundle, along with a battered water flask. It is a meager offering, and he is very small, his eyes are clouded with blindness. The Guardian monks look down at him, a baby blinking sleepily, already coated in the coppery dust that swirls restlessly through the rocks. One of the monks sighs, picking up the flask and glumly shaking it to hear the faint slosh inside.

“They should’ve at least given us a full flask with this,” she says.

The others chuckle or grumble or stay silent, but one of them lifts the bundle and softly brushes the dust away from the baby. At this, he begins to cry with an ear-splitting shriek. The monk carrying him flinches, and the others draw back in surprise. It seems incredible that such a tiny being can produce so much noise.

“ _Two_ flasks,” says the first monk wryly.

And so Chirrut Îmwe comes to the Temple of the Kyber.

* * *

Baze Malbus is a serious child. He has no siblings and his parents expect him to do the work that many hands should have shared, so he does. They live on a starship and move from planet to planet, hauling cargo for whoever can pay. He catches glimpses of different worlds, colors shining in the black of space, but they never stay long. There are brief stops at ports and markets, and no matter how many places they go, it never quite becomes familiar. He tries to parse the jumble of faces and languages, teaching himself to recognize more and more. But there is always another port, another client, another journey into the dark.

He is young when he hears about the Force, but something inside him leaps when he begins to understand it. The Force is unfathomably vast, yet deeply personal, a power that guides and protects, and grants skill and strength beyond imagining. He thrills to stories of the Jedi, wise and terrible warriors who dance in the fire of the Force, wielding indestructible blades of pure light.

He finds a stick and holds it like a Jedi’s saber, practicing stances and hoping for the Force to show him how to fight. He closes his eyes, concentrates on his own breathing, tries to feel everything he can as he waits.

* * *

Everyone is tired, and it’s always his fault. There are others at the temple, children and novices, but no one else is the cause of so much outcry.

“Chirrut! Don’t touch that!”

“Chirrut! Get those nuna beasts out of the kitchen!”

“Chirrut! Stop jumping on the statues!”

“Chirrut! Go outside!!”

It usually ends with that, and he makes his way through the winding corridors and crumbling steps, out into the cold Jedha day. Often, the air is filled with dust, stinging his skin and sneaking into every fold of his robe. Despite the chill, he feels the sun above and also in the rock below and behind him, low heat radiating all around. It is like the way he feels the Force, a river of warmth flowing through him and beyond him, ripples of it giving shape to the world he cannot see.

The monks have taught him about sensing the Force. Though he does try to meditate as they do, reciting their simple mantra, he finds that the Force always surrounds him. He listens for it as he listens for anything else, feeling it as he feels vibrations move through the ground and the air. His whole self is tuned to it, resonating like a bell struck in harmony with another.

He moves without hesitation, unthinkingly confident in his steps as he walks across the jagged path. He knows where he is going, and if he were to suddenly slip and go skittering down the broken retaining wall, well then he was meant to go here.

Chirrut rubs his backside and picks himself up from the pile of rubble he’s landed in. He hears the indignant hissing of a sand scratcher. He pitches a pebble at it and it scurries off, kicking up grit in an echo of its hiss. He reaches forward and soon finds the eggs half-buried in the loose gravel. Carefully, he scoops them into his robe and then begins the climb back to the temple. He grins and thinks about lunch.

* * *

After moving the last crate into the hold, Baze sits down and absently kneads his sore hands together. He closes his eyes, thinking again of all the stories he has heard about the Force. He tries to glean whatever knowledge he can on the various planets they visit. Some have told him tall tales, too outlandish even for someone of his age to believe. Some have hurriedly hushed him, warning that it was bad luck or worse to ask about such things. Others have given him scraps of legends, blurry memories, or dubious rumors. But he has gathered what he knows and sifted through it, checking his notes as methodically as he checks the cargo manifest.

One thread that persists through everything is the crystals. The heart of the Jedi’s weapon, these crystals are somehow key to understanding the Force. And he needs that. Because despite all his efforts, all his yearning and listening and waiting - he feels nothing. He cannot find the Force on his own, so he must reach it another way.

He keeps his impatience in check as his parents continue hauling across the galaxy. He keeps seeking out stories, now focusing on the crystals, slowly piecing the hints together. Then one day, he hears of the holy city on a desert moon.

* * *

Sticky with sweat and scoured all over by sand, Chirrut dodges wildly and tries to hear past the ragged gasping that thunders out of his mouth. The woman attacking him is a visitor, only arrived this morning, so he has had no chance to learn her movement. Now, here in the sparring area, everything seems too loud, chaotic, jagged. His heart thuds heavy in his chest, further adding to the roar of confusion that fills his senses.

He had heard her earlier, speaking quietly to one of the monks. “He’s just a child,” she said, her tone not scornful, but skeptical. Still, ferocious indignation blazed up in Chirrut; he could take on any of his fellows, even proper novices older than himself. He couldn’t wait to face this visitor on the sparring ground.

It has not gone as he expected.

She has struck him several times and he has not even come close to touching her. The staff feels thin and traitorous in his sweating hands, and he struggles to get a firm grip on it. He knows this is only a practice match, but an unfamiliar current of fear sizzles through his body.

The visitor’s staff catches him across the legs and he slams into the ground, the surprise stunning him more than the impact. For a moment, he cannot believe it. He does not fall! He does not need help! He has the Force - and then the mantra rises up, unbidden, the pattern of words spilling into his breath, circling his mind. It quiets the noise, helps him push against the pain as he gets up. The sand beneath his feet whispers a counterpoint to the chant as he regains his footing.

Almost immediately, the woman strikes him again.

* * *

By now, Baze knows that the crystals mean Kyber, and Kyber means Jedha, and Jedha means a long, difficult course far beyond any useful region. There is no good reason for his parents to travel in such a low traffic area, and part of him despairs of ever finding a way there. But he is nothing if not dogged, and continues to search to any information that could help. He is prepared to wait a long time, if necessary.

But one day, while he is loading a carrier with goods, he hears a horrible bursting noise coming from the ship, and he is dropping the boxes and running even as he recognizes the smell of scorching circuits and too much gas. The ship seems to shimmer with heat as he arrives. It’s worse than he imagined, there’s a smoldering hole blasted through the hull, the metal torn and curled like hungry teeth gaping towards him, and then he trips and realizes his father is lying on the floor, it’s his father’s body, there is blood baked dry by the hideous heat of the explosion. He looks for his mother and eventually finds her body outside, near the hole, she must have been checking the panel there when the shards of metal flew into her.

And just like that, his family is gone and their ship is ruined, and he is alone. The ship is too dangerous to salvage properly, but he needs something, anything, so he darts inside, grabbing what supplies he can carry. Over the deep groaning of the ship’s hull, he hears yelling, growing louder.

By now, other haulers and port workers have arrived, and Baze feels a stab of fear through the numbing shock that has him in its grip. This port operates on a flimsy pretense of law, and there is no shortage of crooked opportunists who will try to turn this to their advantage. They might even blame him for the explosion, calling it an attempt to damage other ships, and they will demand retribution that he cannot pay. He has seen it happen before, and so he runs. He vanishes into the clamor of the crowd, leaving everything behind.

* * *

Chirrut has gone through the temple archives over and over; the records are few and ill-preserved in the harsh climate, so they have less stored knowledge than their long history would warrant. The holos frustrate him, since he cannot feel the motion of the recordings. But he listens intently to them all. Sometimes he hears the hum of the lightsaber when he dreams.

When he was very young, he announced his desire to be a Jedi, but he was always told this is not the way of the Guardians. At one point, he decided he would just do it anyway, but apparently he cannot learn to be a real Jedi without other Jedi to show him how. So, he becomes a novice Guardian instead. It’s no real decision, simply a continuation of his every day. And the temple needs defenders, so the monks have taught him what they can. They have also brought him to any pilgrims who are willing to teach. It seems like he only gets tastes of these different styles, but that only whets his appetite for more. He is growing quick and quicker.

“You have potential,” says one of the Guardians. “It will take some time to sort out the arrangements, but… we think you should go and learn more.”

“Yes!” shouts Chirrut. “But who will protect you while I’m gone?” he teases.

The monk scoffs. “We’ve lasted this long, we can survive without one reckless boy for a little while longer,” they say. “Besides, maybe we’ll all finally get some rest when you leave.”

Chirrut puts on an exaggerated pout. “You don’t really love me, then.”

“Ha! You’re a terror and a nuisance and we can’t wait to be rid of you.” But they lay a gentle hand on Chirrut’s shoulder.

* * *

Although he is young, finding work is not hard for someone like Baze, who is strong and quick to learn. He knows ships and keeps his mouth shut. He joins a hauling crew, then another, moving on as the credits go. He does not care about getting rich, but he needs funds to get where he wants to go, so he keeps at it.

He is still set on going to Jedha. It is more important than ever now, almost an obsession, as he wonders: was it the will of the Force that his family died? what would that mean? could he have saved them if the Force was with him?

He works hard. The jobs become more complicated - the Republic has grown large, maybe too large, and its officials are often working only for themselves. As corruption deepens throughout the worlds, the line between haulers and smugglers is blurred.

Baze learns to shoot. His first blaster is a rifle, much too heavy for him, but it’s what he is given, so he uses it. He also learns how to tend basic injuries and fix many kinds of droids and devices. He grows taller, but keeps his head down. Sometimes, he almost forgets his goal; strained and exhausted from the day, the Force crystals seem like a childish fantasy. But he stubbornly holds onto the notion. Without it, there is only endless wandering through the cold reaches of space.

* * *

The day comes at last when they will depart. At first, Chirrut is disappointed to learn that he will only go so far as NaJedha, the planet that spins his moon in its orbit. But even before the transport leaves, he quickly realizes that this adventure is going to be much more intense than he anticipated. The spaceport is filled with people, ships, droids, animals; the noise alone is like a summer monsoon rolling over him. And the press of so many, so near - he is suddenly afraid that he will be crushed and suffocated in the chaos. He leans close to the Guardian who is accompanying him.

“It’s so crowded!” Chirrut exclaims. He hopes his voice doesn’t reveal how nervous he is. To his dismay, the monk chuckles.

“This is nothing,” she says. “Jedha is a tiny port, and well away from the main space routes.”

He had heard that before, but experiencing this, now, is totally rearranging everything he held in his mind. “This is… so much,” he whispers.

She can’t hear him over the din, but she gives him a push forward. “Go on!” she says. “You wanted to see the galaxy, better get started on that.”

“You know, I won’t actually be able to see it,” says Chirrut, mustering some of his usual impertinence.

She replies with a sound somewhere between a laugh and a snort. “Let’s go,” she says, and reaches to shove him again.

Before she can, Chirrut steps out. He draws a deep breath, swallowing down his anxiety and putting on the face of smiling bravado with which he wants to meet this new world. 

* * *

It is only a few years, but for Baze, it feels like ages pass. Every day is full of danger, but the kind that only makes one weary, because it is always present, always biting away at life in endless different ways. He sees too many worlds to count, with all their wonders and horrors. Crewmates come and go - some more violently than others. He changes ships several times. At more and more ports, he sees mass-produced “security” droids, until he comes to expect them everywhere. He stays in motion. He learns to hide smarter, run longer, shoot faster. The credits come and go, but he gets what he needs. And then, one day, he has enough.

The realization is a brief flare of joy, so sharp that he grits his teeth against it. But quickly, firmly, he clamps down on the feeling; there is still much work to be done, and there is still no guarantee that he will get to his destination.

And besides, he can’t even set out right away. It could never be that easy. He has to finish a job, and then wait out for a while in the aftermath. And then he has to restock some supplies, and then look for the kind of transport he needs. Eventually, he finds a small party set on an obscure pilgrimage.

He joins them, and goes to Jedha.

* * *

It is only a few years, but for Chirrut, every day races by, leaving him excited or exhausted or both. NaJedha is dizzying, terrifying, exhilarating; he is overwhelmed by the rush of life that surrounds him each moment. The Force swirls like a flood-rich river, a huge flow that is at once a deep current and a flicker-light pulse, the reflection and essence of every being. Sometimes, he feels like he will drown in it, and yet he is ever buoyed up by it as well.

The Force has always been a part of his daily life, but now he begins to better understand how to unite his mind and body in it. He learns how to reach out into the Force, to move through it and let it move through him. And he begins to train in earnest. He visits shrines and sanctuaries, gambling dens and alley kitchens, fighting schools and weapon halls. Pain is his constant companion. But he persists.

Then, one day he receives a message from the temple, asking everyone to return for the midsummer festival. He almost ignores it, but he finds a part of himself missing the old grounds. Nostalgia moves him to the port while reluctance slows his steps; but before long, he finds a ship going to Jedha.

* * *

When Baze arrives at the moon, he is underwhelmed. The city looks cramped, too many buildings packed into its tired walls. The port where they land is dingy and utterly unremarkable, but crowded with travelers here for some kind of celebration. As he disembarks with the pilgrims, they blink into the sudden gusts of cool, sandy wind, and immediately find themselves swarmed by locals eagerly hawking trinkets and food. He tries to push through the clamor, but then realizes he’s not sure where to go. The pilgrims seem to have the best idea of how to actually get to the Kyber temple. So he stays with them and trudges slowly on.

The pilgrims watch Baze warily at first, but he patiently sticks to them as they make their way through the port and out into the city itself. Hawkers continue to follow the group, and other, shadier figures begin to trail them as well. But Baze walks on with studied casualness, deliberately placing his hand on his blaster, his eyes hooded as he moves his gaze unhurriedly across the street. He watches several shadows slink away as he approaches. The pilgrims notice too, and move closer to him.

As soon as he can shift his focus from the threat of attack, Baze realizes he doesn’t actually need guidance to his destination; the temple is the tallest building in the city, an immense bulk towering above anything else. It looks deep red in the late afternoon sun. He could set his eyes on it and never get lost. But he glances at the pilgrims huddling near, looking at him with a different kind of anxiety now - they are afraid he will leave them. An odd mix of resignation and pride stirs inside him.

Then he stands taller and moves briskly down the street. He hears the murmur of relief among the others as they scurry along with him, heading towards the temple which waits before them like a promise.

* * *

Chirrut returns swiftly, letting his feet remember the way back. He wishes he could be moving onward, not retracing these old steps; but still, there is some satisfaction in coming back to these familiar places. He hears the snap of festival banners strung from buildings. The street vendors are out in droves, and he smells the heady fragrance of spices carried aloft on steam - a liberal use of liquids flowing in anticipation of the coming rains. And already he can feel the increased moisture in the air, a whisper of the storm that will soon drench the parched earth.

He winds through the crooked paths, bolstered by the comfortable sounds of the city: the varied tones of countless windchimes and bells, the flutter of prayer flags, the unending bustle of vehicles and people. Music, arguments, laughter, chanting. A sudden wave of affection rolls through him; maybe this is not the greatest or most exciting city in the galaxy, but it is his.

At the temple, many Guardians stand outside, welcoming (and carefully inspecting) the visitors who await entrance. Because of the festival, there are far more than usual, and the crowd moves slowly. Chirrut doesn’t even go near the main steps; instead, he takes a narrow footpath that circles around and then eventually twists up behind the temple, close to the wall. He sneaks in through the modest door and goes through the kitchens.

Once inside, he is greeted with mock dismay which quickly dissolves into laughter and embraces. He has to admit that it is good to be home.

* * *

The light is fading when Baze’s group finally reaches the steps. Stiff and cold, he jostles tiredly with the rest of them as they gradually ascend the wide stones. The monks standing alongside (Guardians, he knows now) help them up with kind words and strong hands. Baze has seen how they search the pilgrims, and now he sees them watching him. He wonders if he should meet their eyes or pretend he doesn’t notice. But before he can make up his mind, he realizes how close they are to the door, and in his excitement, he trips over an uneven part of the steps. He swerves quickly to avoid crashing into the pilgrim in front of him, sending up a cloud of gritty dust. Coughing, red-faced, he leans against the threshold. The Guardians waiting inside look at him, bemused.

And so Baze Malbus comes to the Temple of the Kyber.

At first, he can barely keep himself from running ahead. But the monks lead them through the corridors at a sedate pace, explaining carvings on the walls, pointing out artifacts from ancient travelers. He tries to listen, but he’s almost too elated to pay attention. He gazes eagerly around, trying to see where the crystals will be. It’s hard to imagine anything bright and shiny in the temple - the whole place is dim and worn, and the red dust is everywhere.

Eventually, the Guardians direct them to a chamber where they can meditate. The others sit or stand in silence, apparently content with this. Baze stops, suddenly tense with anxiety. This can’t be it. He hasn’t worked so hard and come so far just for a tour and a sit in a room. Wide-eyed, he whips around, looking for the monks, but they have gone. Something like fear squeezes his heart. No, this can’t be all. He dashes out, careening into the corridor. There is no sign of the monks.

* * *

Chirrut is eating a steam bun when he notices the commotion in the gathering room. Stuffing the bun in his mouth, he joins the others heading towards the room. There’s a loud not-quite-argument going on:

“- he was going to shoot her!”

“No, he was just startled, he apologized! He even handed over the blaster, they have it now.”

“How did he even get down there?”

“He got lost?”

“He was looking for someone to talk to - “

“He’s a thief!”

“I think he said he wanted to be a monk...”

“That’s what a thief would say!”

“Oh come on, look, he seems really upset.”

Chirrut has no idea who everyone is talking about, but apparently it’s quite interesting, so he weaves through the clump of people to where it’s less noisy. He hears two of the elders talking in low voices. There is a third voice, a new one, presumably this disruptive visitor. His voice is also quiet, but determined. Curious, Chirrut steps closer and then he feels it.

He has never seen a sunrise, of course. But lots of people seem enamored of the phenomenon, so he has asked many times what it is like. Mostly the explanations annoy him, with the inevitable focus on light and color. But sometimes people managed to come up with more evocative descriptions: it’s like smelling a new flower just after the first rain of the season; it’s like being cold and then feeling a fire grow from embers to flames; it’s like hearing a bird calling in the distance, then another, and another, until the air is filled with song.

He thinks of all these things as he stands facing the newcomer. Chirrut senses a blossoming of the Force, something that must be a _brightness_ around this stranger. It is fascinating and sort of wonderful, but also makes Chirrut feel oddly abashed, in a way he cannot understand. Still, he can’t help but smile, because now he has had his own sunrise. He walks up, ignoring the startled exclamations from the monks.

“Hello, I’m Chirrut!” he calls out.

* * *

Baze carefully, slowly eats the bun. He gently cradles its softness, amazed at the pillowy bread, and even more impressed with the savory filling inside. Eventually, he realizes that the novice who accompanied him to the kitchen is still talking.

“- and it’s going to be six days and then we have to clean up everything afterwards but it’s still fun and you can even go to the edge of the wall and…” His voice trails off and he tilts his head at Baze. “You’re still eating that? There’s more buns and stuff, we have porridge and these baked eggs that someone brought. Oh, and you should try -”

He keeps going, and Baze takes this opportunity to examine his new companion more closely. Chirrut, as he proclaimed himself, is probably near Baze’s age, possessing a wiry strength and a quickness that immediately makes Baze cautious. The novice moves with ease so careless that it’s hard to believe he can’t see. But his cloudy pale eyes stand out in his coppery face, seemingly always alight with a mischievous smile.

It was after Chirrut’s interruption that the Guardians allowed Baze to stay. He knows that the novice had something to do with their decision - they pulled him aside and spoke with him at length - but it’s not entirely clear why. Still, Chirrut has not left Baze’s side since then, and he finds himself grateful for the company, if nothing else. And the food is great, too.

Baze watches as Chirrut darts around the kitchen, deftly shuffling dishes and boxes and pushing various things towards the counter where Baze is sitting: a basket of dumplings, a bowl of thick gruel, a plate piled with various dried fruits. Baze is somewhat overwhelmed by everything, but he feels himself gradually relaxing.

He can stay at the temple. He might not have what he came here for, not yet, but he can be patient a while longer. He can stay and learn and then, he will find it.

* * *

The monks usually select someone to accompany a new supplicant, but Chirrut assigns himself to Baze. Mainly, it’s because Chirrut is extremely curious about the young traveler and sticking with him is a good way for Chirrut to ask as many questions as possible. He can’t find a way to ask his real question, about the brightness he felt; so instead, he asks about everything else he can think of.

“Where did you come from?”

“What was it like in space?”

“How many weapons can you use?”

“What was the best planet you went to? The worst?”

He fully expects to be told to shut up; but to his delight, Baze answers without complaint, although he often seems puzzled by Chirrut’s interest. Baze seems to view his remarkable life with an almost indifferent levelness. The only time this changes is when Chirrut asks about his family. Baze is quiet for a while, and Chirrut freezes, feeling the sudden tension in the air.

“They’re gone,” Baze replies finally, and even Chirrut knows enough not to press further.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and he doesn’t ask anything more for the rest of the day. At least Baze seems to forgive readily, and the next day Chirrut feels like he can return to his barrage of questions. He thinks that Baze is warming up to it, giving longer answers, sometimes volunteering extra tangents.

Chirrut knows that Baze is anxious to learn more about the Guardians, maybe begin some training of his own. But the cloudburst has come and the festival is in full roar. The monsoon comes only once a year and all of Jedha is determined to make the most of it.

Every surface is covered with vessels for collecting water, all filled to overflowing. Torrents blast through dust-choked gutters to gush from roofs. Locals and visitors alike plunge into the streets, soon more like rivers than roads. The banners blur and twist, the chimes clamor in the ceaseless downpour.

The holy city is transformed, and Chirrut pulls Baze into the joyful chaos. They splash through the rain and the watery paths, Chirrut laughing as the other marvels at the change. Chirrut takes him up to the top of the wall, a precarious journey in the rain, but Baze never hesitates at all. Once at the top, Chirrut points down. There, the excess water runs from the city through sluices that pierce the wall, sending massive waterfalls leaping down to the deep desert below. The noise is so vast that Chirrut can barely hear Baze yelling; he can’t make out the words, but the thrill is unmistakeable.

Chirrut feels the rain pounding down, the thunder of the falls, the life rising up all across the red earth. But somehow, greater than all that is the warmth of Baze’s presence, the Force enfolding him like a quiet wave. Not knowing what else to do, Chirrut shouts into the storm and hears his voice doubled as Baze shouts too.

* * *

The water dries to mud, which soon dries to dust, and the desert emerges from the monsoon, bright with blooms and new growth, but once again cold and dry. Now that things have settled down in the temple, Baze is trying his hardest to show the Guardians that he intends to follow their path. They will not make him a novice in their order until they believe that he truly wants to learn. They will begin to teach him, but their great mysteries - like the Kyber crystals - are not for outsiders. Baze swallows his frustration. He understands that they need to protect their secrets, and if he were in their place, seeing a scruffy, well-armed nobody from nowhere, he wouldn’t let him in at all. Still, he wishes they could understand how much he needs this. But he will have to show them.

He listens attentively to the lessons, completes all his chores neatly and thoroughly, stays long at all the sparring practice. And he diligently tries to meditate, even though he’s not entirely sure what makes meditating different from just sitting silently. He tries to focus on the mantra the monks have given him: _the Force is with me, I am one with the Force_. It is an uncomplicated thing, seemingly far too simplistic; but the more he tries to quiet himself by repeating the words, the more they worry him. Is the Force actually with him? How would he know? How can he be one with something he has never seen or felt? Is it lying if he says it? Will the Force shun him for pretending? What really _is_ the Force anyway?

It doesn’t help that he can’t seem to do anything without Chirrut being there. No matter where Baze goes or what he does, before long, Chirrut is always RIGHT THERE. Baze is at first startled, then unnerved, then very annoyed. He has asked Chirrut about it, many times. But the other shrugs or laughs. “Why are you always where I’m going?” Chirrut throws back, teasingly.

The worst thing is, Chirrut seems to be able to actually, truly feel the Force. It’s not only the uncanny surety of his movement, but something that Baze can’t quite define. When Chirrut sits next to him to meditate, it seems like the gravity of the room shifts. Maybe it’s that the stillness is especially noticeable, given Chirrut’s usual boundless energy; but Baze feels the hairs on his arm prickle and knows there’s more than the mere absence of motion.

It is power.

* * *

Chirrut listens as Baze trudges out from the sparring room, no doubt heading to the washroom to clean the sweat and grit from his many bruises. Chirrut sighs, very loudly. “I don’t understand it,” he complains. “He doesn’t know any of this stuff!”

The monk turns to him sharply. “Remember, not long ago, you didn’t know any of ‘this stuff’ either,” he says. “And _we_ have been stuck with _you_ for years, so the least you can do is help someone else.”

Chirrut aggressively scuffs his feet, sending up puffs of dust. “But why is he even trying it?” he asks. “It’s not just the sparring, it’s all the training. Everyone can tell that he can’t sense the Force.” And yet there’s so much of the Force around him - Chirrut still can’t figure that out.

“Chirrut,” said the monk, and there’s a weight to his voice that makes Chirrut stop fidgeting, “you have a gift, and you take it for granted. Most of us will never know the Force like you do, even those of us who have lived our entire lives striving for it.”

He has never heard any of them say something like that. The words strike him like a blow he won’t fully feel until later.

But before he can think on it more, the monk goes on: “Don’t forget that there are other ways for the Force to be with someone.”

“But… Baze doesn’t get it at all…”

“Maybe. But he believes in it despite that.”

Chirrut begins to scuff his feet again, slowly this time. “So?” he asks, half challenging, half genuinely curious.

“Well, do you believe in the Force?”

“Of course, I -!” Chirrut exclaims. Then, a strange confusion causes him to interrupt himself, “No I don’t need to, I know -”

The monk touches his arm softly. “It’s easy to trust that the ground is there when you stand on it. But not everyone lives on the ground.”

* * *

Baze becomes accustomed to the routine of temple life, and he comes to accept that Chirrut is an inescapable part of that. Baze often watches the novice with mixture of envy and resentment; but despite everything, he is generally glad for the other’s presence. Without Chirrut plunging himself (and likewise, Baze) into everyone’s business, Baze would likely have kept to himself. But now he finds himself well integrated into the Guardians’ community. It is an eclectic blend of peoples - several from other worlds, a range of ages and genders, all with different reasons for coming to the temple.

“And what about you?” Chirrut asks one day. They have just listened to a story told by an older monk who lived on NaJedha and came after she frightened her parents with an early display of Force abilities.

Baze is still mulling over the account and has to think for a moment. He realizes that he has no straightforward answer. There are so many things that have drawn him, pushed him. Maybe it is only his own stubbornness more than anything else. But is there any great underlying reason?

“I had to,” he says eventually. He braces himself for the usual onslaught of continued questioning; but to his surprise, Chirrut nods thoughtfully and says nothing.

* * *

The holo ends, and Chirrut yawns. He listened to this one ages ago, and it didn’t seem particularly interesting. But Baze is sitting rapt, his breathing light and quick.

“The crystals are so… they look like… I don’t know, it’s amazing…”

“You really like them, huh?”

“They’re important!” Baze snaps. “They’re the most important Force… thing… “ His voice wavers with sudden shyness. “At least, that’s what it always seems like.” He shifts on the stone bench. “They’re in lightsabers,” he says reverently.

Chirrut smiles. “Yeah, I always wanted one. Bzzzt! Vrrrmmmm!!” He leaps up, swinging an imaginary blade, mimicking the noises he’s heard so many times.

Baze laughs. “Vrrrrrrr!” he echoes, though his version isn’t nearly as good. “Ahh it’s hard to imagine, sometimes. The crystals are right here, in this temple.”

Chirrut can hear the longing in his tone. It makes him feel obscurely guilty, somehow.

Baze turns towards him. “Have you ever seen them? I mean -”

Chirrut waves aside the slip. “Yeah, I’ve been there, they’re nice. They don’t taste too good, though.”

“You ATE one?!” Baze shouts, somewhere between horror and outrage.

“What no, I just licked it. I used to lick a lot of things when I was little. It was dusty.” Chirrut grins. “Well, maybe you should eat one, though! Then you’d really be one with the Force, haha!” He stops laughing as he hears Baze sigh, not a sound of exasperation but something deeper, as though he’s folding in on himself.

Chirrut feels an awful jolt inside, and wants to hide from the other’s quiet pain. But he forces himself to sit down next to Baze. “I shouldn’t have said that,” he says.

“It’s ok,” Baze mumbles.

“No! It was wrong! And besides, the Force is strong with you.” As soon as he says it, Chirrut realizes it’s true. He doesn’t understand how, exactly, but he knows it.

“Don’t,” says Baze grimly.

“But I mean it,” Chirrut insists. “I felt it even on your first day here. It’s all around you.”

Baze makes a confused noise. “But… why can’t I feel it?”

“I don’t know,” says Chirrut, sitting down next to Baze again. “We’ll figure it out.” They sit in silence for a while. Then, suddenly, Chirrut stabs Baze in the side with a finger.

“Got you!” he shouts over Baze’s yelp of shock. Chirrut wags his finger. “You weren’t ready for my tiny saber.”

“Well here’s my double-bladed saber,” Baze growls, and pokes Chirrut in the stomach with the fingers of both hands.

“Oof! That’s cheating!” Chirrut slides off the bench and swings his leg up. “Foot saber!” he yells, shoving his sandal towards Baze’s shoulder.

Baze ducks.“Now you’re cheating!” He jumps away and chases after Chirrut, who is now running out the hall, throwing pebbles back at him.

“Rock sabers!” Chirrut calls out.

“That doesn’t even make sense!”

* * *

The cloth is dark gray, unadorned with any decoration or pattern. Baze holds the simple robe, running his hands over the mended sections. How many novices wore this in the past? Did they become Guardians, adding the crimson to their grays? Or did they leave and go back to their homes from before? He thinks of his time hauling in space, another life. He thinks briefly of his parents, wondering if he should feel more than a distance from them.

Strange that this cold dusty moon would be the place he would come to, after so much. But here he is now, about to don this robe and set himself on a new course. He should be excited, but mostly he seems to be watching himself. His fingers look large and clumsy holding the old, soft robe. He rubs a hand over his newly-shorn head. He tries to turn his thoughts to the mantra, but the words keep slipping through his mind, meaninglessly.

“Hey!” Chirrut’s voice interrupts the void, and Baze looks over to see the novice sticking his head into the doorway. “Hurry up! The sooner the ceremony is over, the sooner we can get to the important part.”

Baze begins to unfold the robe. “What’s that?”

“The feast, of course!” Chirrut grins. “Come on!”

“I can’t get dressed while you’re here,” says Baze.

“I won’t look,” Chirrut says.

Baze rolls his eyes and pushes Chirrut away, closing the door. He holds up the robe, the sleeves spread wide as if to embrace him. He takes a deep breath.

* * *

Feeling drowsy from the abundance of warm, good food, Chirrut leans back in his chair and sighs in satisfaction. The new novices are all standing together, chatting amongst themselves, and for once, Chirrut is willing to leave Baze to it. He doesn’t talk as much as the others; but when he does, he sounds content.

Chirrut’s attention drifts and then he notices the small clump of elder Guardians lingering over their tea. They are discussing the reveal of the caverns below, the first mystery that they will introduce to the novices. Realizing what this means, Chirrut sits up so quickly, he almost knocks the chair over. Gathering himself up, he runs over to them.

“Let me!” he blurts.

“ _You_ want to show them?” one of the monks asks. Her tone immediately makes Chirrut lower his head, chagrined. It is vastly overstepping his place, after all.

“Sorry,” he says. “I just want to take one of them… Baze, he’s my friend, and the crystals are a big deal to him.”

“You could go with the group when we take them.”

Chirrut shakes his head. “I want to be the one to show him. Just Baze. It’s… it’s important. Please?”

He can tell they’re exchanging looks in the silence that follows. At last, there’s a sigh.

“All right,” says the Guardian. “But only this one time.”

“Thanks!” exclaims Chirrut. “Thank you!”

“Well, bring us another pot,” one of the other monks says.

Chirrut grabs the empty teapot and speeds off, a lightness inside him.

* * *

Finally, the day has arrived when they go to see the crystals. Baze doesn’t even try to hide his excitement; he is probably hyperventilating, but he doesn’t care. He is, however, a little bothered by Chirrut’s unbelievable nonchalance.

Chirrut strolls along, as if this is nothing more than a casual walk to the kitchens. He chatters aimlessly, grinning at his own jokes, probably making fun of Baze for being so serious about this - but Baze isn’t paying any attention. He has been waiting for this moment all his life. Everything he worked for was for this. To see the crystals, to see the Force… 

They begin to descend on crude stairs carved directly into the rock of the mountain. At first, Baze slows, thinking that Chirrut might need more time to make his way down the uneven steps. But Chirrut breezes by and so Baze resumes his anxious pace.

“Wait!” says Chirrut, as they reach the bottom of the stairs.

Baze freezes instantly; maybe there are traps or hidden gates guarding the sacred place below. Then he flinches as Chirrut claps his hands over Baze’s eyes. “What are you doing?” he asks, hearing the edge of desperation in his own voice.

“It’s better if you go in like this,” Chirrut replies, sounding uncharacteristically solemn. But then the effect is ruined as Baze tries to move forward and steps on Chirrut’s feet because Chirrut is standing right in front of him, and it’s ridiculous and stupid.

But Chirrut just laughs. “Ok ok, let’s do it like this,” he said, and moves his hands away. “Close your eyes, Baze.”

Baze obeys, and then feels Chirrut move to stand by his side. A hand touches his arm.

“I’ll guide you in,” Chirrut says.

“All right,” says Baze, and thinks for a moment about the irony of a blind person guiding him, but maybe it makes a sort of sense here. At any rate, he allows Chirrut to slowly pull him along. They don’t walk very far, but for once Chirrut is quiet, and Baze becomes aware of the way sound moves in this place - the _rsk rsk_ of their feet on the rough stone, the rustle of their clothes, even their breathing. Everything sounds close and strange in this passage in the stone. Then, all at once, the noises change, becoming echoing, and he realizes they are in a larger space.

“We’re here!” Chirrut exclaims cheerfully, his voice rebounding so loudly that Baze jumps. “You can open your eyes now!”

But Baze pauses. He exhales, and listens to the sound softly murmur around, and return back to him. The quiet is broken as Chirrut begins talking again. (“It’s pretty, right? Everyone says that, ooh so pretty, I guess that’s a big deal...”) Baze ignores him, waits a moment longer. Then, finally, he opens his eyes.

The crystals are there. They are clear as ice, growing up from a deep fissure in the stone. Some rear up taller than him, others as tiny as a child’s fingers. They have an incredible clarity - it seems as though he can see every shining angle and facet. And they glow, a faint, almost imperceptible radiance that blooms in their transparent depths. He has never seen anything so beautiful in all his travels through the galaxy.

But he feels nothing.

The light of the Kyber does not kindle in him. No flood of warmth or welcome washes over him. The Force does not speak to him. He cannot feel it. But he keeps gazing at the crystals, because he has come so far and toiled so long to be here. And now…

“Are you all right?” asks Chirrut. He sounds worried, almost scared. He still has his hand on Baze’s arm, and is now gripping the sleeve tightly.

Baze realizes that he is crying. He turns to Chirrut, who has the most startling expression of concern on his face. In the brief time that Baze has known him, Chirrut has always been infuriatingly flippant, laughing and smirking and teasing. But now, he looks as though his heart is breaking. And Baze has never had anyone meet him with such care. It sears through him like a blaster bolt, and something begins to unfurl in the roaring empty place within him. He tries to respond, but only a strangled sort of sob comes out.

Chirrut immediately bursts into tears. “I’m sorry!” he wails, hauling Baze into an awkward hug. “I thought you would be happy or at least if you’re crying it would be in a good way but you seem really disappointed and I know this meant a lot to you and I’m so sorry! What can I do?”

Baze finds his nose smashed into the prickly hairs of Chirrut’s shaved head, and Chirrut’s tears are dampening his shoulder, and his own tears are running into his mouth. But he is smiling, somehow, through the taste of salt and the deep, aching sorrow. Chirrut’s arms are warm around him, and in the gentle glow of the crystals, Baze thinks that maybe this is what he has been looking for after all.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fanfic. Thanks to [BaronVonChop](http://archiveofourown.org/users/BaronVonChop) for support and editing!


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